


Butterflies

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Brotp, Coping, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of past self-harm, One Shot, Writing on Skin, really drawing but who's counting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:18:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is having trouble coping. Grantaire to the rescue (at least for the day)!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterflies

                His fingernails are painted blue and bronze. Bronze because they couldn’t find gold; blue for the sky and the sea and Grantaire’s eyes, looking up at him through obscenely long lashes, pleading _againagainagain please Jehan don’t again_. The paint is chipped from raking over his skin all day yesterday and all day today, looking for release that _he can’t find_.

                His thighs and arms are ragged with bright red grooves where he’s been scratching, looking for a way out. The scratches run up and down, perpendicular to the white-pink scars that reside there, too. His limbs look like battlefields, like trench warfare and stalemates are taking place within his skin, just under the surface.

                His fingers reach for the cuff of his jacket, pull it up to reveal the soft flesh of his wrist, ripe for tearing, cutting, opening, _breathing_. But fuck. He can’t. Not today.

                Not when Grantaire spent twenty minutes this morning drawing a perfectly realistic bright red butterfly on the inside of his wrist with the fancy pens Feuilly had gotten him for Christmas last year. Not when Grantaire blew gently on the ink to make sure it was dry before grabbing his wrist and staring into his eyes and whispering, “Jehan, you know that if you hurt yourself, you’re gonna kill this butterfly, too, right?” and he’d just nodded because he didn’t know what to say.

                He can’t pay attention in class, freewrites instead, black and darkness and sludge and poison oozing out of the end of his pen and onto his paper. He can’t get out of class fast enough, practically runs from the room only to be caught in the brawny tattooed arms of his favorite dark-haired artist, who automatically reaches for his wrist and then grins at him. Grantaire presses a quick kiss to his wrist, just under the butterfly. Not romantic at all, only reassuring.

                _You did well today._

_I’m proud of you._

_You can do this._

_I believe in you._

_You’re gonna be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so I wrote this a little fast because it popped through my brain and I didn't want it to fizzle out. enjoy?


End file.
